Untitled II
by rosereddawn
Summary: Just a snapshot of Sam and Dean driving through the night after a hunt.


"So I say to him, just give me the damn tools. I'll do it myself. Not like I'm letting my baby get ruined over a bad alternator. But no, he keeps going on and on, you know, not even listening."

Dean's babbling over the tinny sound of CCR, hyper on a dead spirit, two sugar-glazed donuts and the last cup of cold caffeine. Sam only has adrenaline to run on and that's running low. Sleep keeps tugging, merging Dean's voice with the radio, the rumble of the engine, the whir of blacktop eating rubber. The night stretches out one long highway, another 200 something miles to go.

"Says to me, come on, real quick, just around the back, you gotta see this, and I'm thinking, what the hell, is he trying to steal my car? So I get the gun-"

A laugh jumps out of Sam's throat. Slouching low, he rolls the curve of his skull along the backrest to face Dean. "You pulled a gun on the mechanic?" His voice comes out a little rough around the edges. Chanting, shouting, exhaustion will do that.

"What? No. I didn't pull it, I just said I had it. Look, Sam, you roll into some junkyard like that with a classic beauty, you gotta be on your toes, always. So anyway."

Sam grins, stupid and bright, and he hides it by turning back towards the open window while Dean keeps talking. The wind lies down cool and heavy on his skin, rustles his hair, blows out the scent of fire and dirt and gasoline that's hanging in the crooks of the interior, blows it all out into the Montana night.

"All the cheap station wagon crap and then he's got a Z11 just sitting there. A 63 Z11, man. Stripped down, giving her a new paint job, fixing the engine and everything, but still, Sammy: that is one beautiful car."

"Mmh," Sam hums, dutifully, eyes fixed on the land blurring into smeared streaks of black and blue. Thinks with a certain amount of bewilderment that some Z11, whatever that is, is surely not worth such admiration. Dean, of all people, should be the one to argue the point. Instead he talks races and engines and drivers and John Fogerty adds, "Someday you'll understand," and the Impala just runs, unbothered.

The wind makes his eyes sting, so he shuts them.

Maybe it's family. Some sort of vehicular family tree. There's Mum and Dad, grandparents above, sons below. A golden, two-ring symbol connects Sam and Jess (should have, anyway; now it says deceased in small letters underneath her name), and another one for Dean and the Impala - which is ridiculous, not to even mention illegal, but true - and a family of Chevrolets is listed off the side just as neatly as the Moores. Maybe what Dean's saying is that the 63 Z11 is a MILF.

"Shit."

Sam startles. Street lamps seam the road. The black horizon's hidden behind container buildings and silos, 70s Fords parked outside.

"You got the map?" Dean says, voice low.

Sam wipes his face and the damp corners of his mouth before he mumbles, "Yeah." He searches for it in the folds of cracked vinyl behind his back and then smooths out the paper between between thigh and palm. "Where are we?"

Dean takes the map from him. He furrows his brows as he studies it, long orange shadows swiping across his jaw. "Go back to sleep, Sammy," he says, and the Impala ticks, and Sam does.

Dawn dribbles into the world, gradually filling air and breath with new, untainted time. A smear of grey outside the windshield tickles Sam from sleep, but he's in no hurry to fully wake. Floating on thin morning light, he lets it widen his chest, merciful and pure, while the car's still rocking its steady tune.

"Breakfast?" Dean asks, because he knows Sam's awake, he always knows.

It's coffee and donuts from a gas station, Dean's warped idea of a nutritious meal. Sam passes on the donuts - too sickeningly sweet, and the cardboard box already shiny with grease - but he savors the heat running down his throat with every sip of coffee.

Dean yawns around the bite in his mouth and rubs his reddened eyes.

"We can swap," Sam offers.

Dean waves him off. "Almost there," he says and slides back behind the wheel.

They cross the state border into North Dakota by sunrise, the sky wild and bright. It's settled into softer hues of blue by the time they find a motel, park the Impala between an array of trucks and bikes and fall into two cheap beds themselves.


End file.
